IthacaLit

​In the guise of a beggar, Odysseus returned to Ithaca.

The Superior Race

The cumulus cloud, like the human race, appearsand wafts any time of the day, or month, or year,and on every continent, but does not sinkinto a Charleston church with words of faithonly to murder faithful citizens.

Before its vengeful bolt and deluge, itcombines with others of its ilk and darkensso those below see, seek a safer siteinside somewhere. It does not distinguishthe sinner or the sanctimonious,but sends its warning sign to all below.

When I've been drenched, it's always been my choice,to ease a heat unbearable, for instance.

Which race then is superior,that of self-styled Christian Men, or that of Cloudscalled Cumulus, which never named themselves?

It's all I can do-not all, perhaps, but something--to hear the news, feel scorched, shout, and linger,hours, beneath the cloudburst, in the rain,in search of kindred souls as soft as cloudsto join me, darken, and respond with thunder.

​

Legacy of Stillness

Had there been a stone wall along their yard,of course, I could have perched upon the groundand plopped my chin atop a stone and smiledas I watched the new family move to town.There was no wall, not even a tree stumpto sit on, so I stood there in the laneand waited for one pair of eyes to lookup--three kids (but one of them was a girl),a mom, a moving van, two moving men,and all too busy, moving. I was busystanding still, thinking, when no one looked up,of all the reasons not to bother themright now, for they were busy, moving in,so busy that no pair of eyes looked up.

I'd see the kids in school, once they'd moved in.

Why wasn't there a wall? When Tommy Freitasmoved in next door, earlier that same summer,he simply sat beside our wall and staredat us. I think he overheard a fightbetween my brothers and me, or just my brothers.I was the youngest, far less bellicoseand occupied, so, sensing alien eyes,I looked over, and there were Tommy Freitas'swhite teeth. Now, was he laughing at our antics?Could he hear the argument? But he was still,not jiggling like a jar of jam or jelly--the difference between laughter and a smile--so of course I said, in 1968,when I was 9, What are you doing there?Come on over. I still remember this.We played together all day. It was easy.

So for some reason, when this family movedto town, later that summer--not next door,not even in our neighborhood, a good walkor short bike ride away--my dad saidWhy don't you go on over to greetthe new family? I did. But I supposea day too early. Since no one looked up,I stood still. I remember all my thoughtsthere, still. There is no sin in standing still,is there? First, I sussed out which of the kidswas closest to my height. He didn't look up.

So what else, in the cataclysmic absenceof a wall, could I do--of several things--that wouldn't make me look silly? Now, I didn'tmind silliness, even then, when I was 9,but I didn't know if they'd mind looking silly;I didn't want to be presumptuous--a word too long to own when you are 9;but still, I knew about not being rude,even then. At a loss for what to do,I moved from the far side of Green Briar Laneto the near side, stood with my toes abuttingtheir grass, right where a fence or wall would haveaccommodated the conspicuousdraping of any nine-year corpulence'sinvitation. It was a ranch house streetlike ours, with side yards ample for croquet,back yards for whiffle ball or badminton.But there were few trees here, and no stone walls,so Capture the Flag would have been problematic,with no sweet nooks or crags for hiding flags.

It was an age when people played outside.

And as I stood there, and no eyes looked up,I started thinking, Why not wait till fall?September, that is. I'd see them in school,anyway. Or--a week: come back next week,with Tommy Freitas, maybe. Next week, whenthey've moved in, and the kids have time to play--Where were their bikes? --Were I to interruptand yell,Hey wanna come ride bikes with me?and they didn't have bikes--well, what would I say then?I couldn't invite them over to my houseto play if they didn't have bikes--it was too farto walk, there was no such thing as a “soccer mom”or “play date” back in 1968.A mother, then, was only a chauffeurwhen you had to get new shoes or see the doctoror dentist. We did playing on our own!If they had bikes, the autumn would be easy.

The first thing to find out: Did they have bikes?

But the truth of the matter was, I remember thinking,I was inviting myself to their house to play,and they weren't ready. They didn't know me, yet.Rude! After all, I didn't welcome allnew families (with kids) to town, did I?And shouldn't one treat everyone the same?Why wasn't there a wall? Why didn't oneof the moving men look up? Then I'd have said,Hey, whatcha doin'? . . . Oh, you want some help?

Maybe next week. Or wait till school starts. Sure.

So I waited till September. But there wereno new kids in school that September. Why?I found out: They'd already moved away.I couldn't fathom why. But two years later,on All in the Family, when the Jeffersonsmoved next door, and the neighborhood resisted,I wondered if, in 1968,some of the neighborhood of Green Briar Lanewere like the TV neighborhood of Queens.

So much was done in 1968.

And all I'd thought to do was bid them welcome,my town's first African-American family,by saying, Hey, you wanna play?not making them feel different, or too different.But I never did. Now, though, in the wakesof Ferguson and Charleston, Baltimoreand Staten Island--ow long must I list?I'm tearing, even as I think of them--I see why my dad said the thing he said.

There was no sin in anything I did,but in the stillness, and remembering,

and standing, frozen, as a new stone wall.

​

James B. Nicola's poems have appeared in the Antioch, Southwest and Atlanta Reviews, Rattle, Tar River, and Poetry East. His nonfiction book, Playing the Audience, won a Choice award. His first full-length poetry collection is Manhattan Plaza (2014); his second, Stage to Page: Poems from the Theater (June 2016). A Yale graduate, James has been giving both theater and poetry workshops at libraries, literary festivals, schools, and community centers all over the country.